


His Savior

by PocketofPersons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketofPersons/pseuds/PocketofPersons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been home from the war for a while now, and the depression eating him has finally become too much.</p><p>(Pre Johnlock. Perhaps a sequel will be in store?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Savior

John and depression were no strangers, especially now that he was back. Even though the day was bright, the streets were busy, and people were happy, he found a certain darkness blooming inside of him. It consumed every fiber of his being, swallowing him whole. He stopped fighting it months ago. It was clear who was going to win, and he had no motivation to carry on. All of his fight was gone.

It annoyed him. Nowadays, it seemed everything annoyed him; children laughing, a dog walking, birds flying, everything. The entire bloody city no longer felt like a home to him. It was a prison and he needed to escape.

But where would he go? Back to Afghanistan? Yeah, right, like they would accept a freshly discharged soldier who still could barely walk and had a stiff shoulder. That would go over really well. He was stuck here, the last place he wanted to be on Earth. He was supposed to be saving the lives of his comrades back in Afghanistan. The war comforted him, gave him the adrenaline rush that he so desperately needed; but most importantly, it gave him a sense of belonging. He was needed there, not here. No one needed or wanted a limping, depressed, useless veteran. He didn’t even want one.

Yet here he was, limping around London. His leg was killing him, his shoulder was aching. His face remained neutral, though. There was no use walking around looking like an angry, bitter bastard when he himself already knew that he was. It was better to just be neutral and stay out of everyone’s way. If he didn’t notice anyone, no one would notice him.

Except for the man he bumped into, and who was now cursing at him as if he’d just been caught with his girlfriend. Or boyfriend. You really couldn’t assume nowadays. John continued walking through the park, head down. He gripped his cane harder and bit the inside of his cheek, a habit that he had yet to rid himself of.

David Beau, a man on his team who’d been killed, also had that habit. He’d been shot in the chest when the attack began. John had tried so damn hard to stop the bleeding, but there was too much going on. He was trying to keep David alive while he kept himself alive. People were screaming his name, and he couldn’t help them. God knows he tried, he tried so hard and got nothing out of it except for a few medals that he didn’t deserve and more dead friends. 

He should have been more careful out there. He should have seen the group way before they were even close to their site. But he didn’t. He didn’t and now a good quarter of his men were dead. It was all his fault. He had tried, he really had. But then someone came up behind him and-

God, he couldn’t bear to think of it.

He closed his eyes and came to a stop on the path that he had been walking on for hours now. All of his comrades’ faces flashed through his mind: David, Alan, Jim, Aaron, Benjamin; all dead because of his lack of ability to save them all.

His therapist had told him over and over that it wasn’t his fault that they were gone. They had all been attacked and John could only help so many at once. And when you add in the fact that he had also been shot in a crucial area, that made the chances of him saving anyone nearly impossible. It was good that he had switched into survival mode and instead saved himself. That's why he was alive. Shouldn't he be so proud of himself?

Without realizing it, John laughed bitterly, which earned him a few strange looks from surrounding people. What a pathetic excuse for a human being he was. Back in Afghanistan, he shot people like that. Pathetic excuses who should have been killed the second they left the womb.

No, that wasn’t fair. Everyone deserved a chance at life. They became pathetic the moment they agreed to fight against him in war, when they give up the lives of their friends in order to keep their asses safe, when they decided to kill the other side simply because that’s what they’re told to do. That’s when they deserved to die.

He deserved to die.

The realization hit John like a semi. He stopped in his tracks and looked up from the ground. How could he have not realized it before? In that war, he hadn’t been any better than the men he killed. He didn’t deserve to live. Who deserved to live when their one job was to keep comrades alive, and he’d failed so spectacularly at that? Maybe if he were gone, then the families of those who were lost would have some closure. The bastard who sucked at his job was now dead, as he should be.

It all made sense. Why should he live when the others died? Answer was simple: He shouldn’t. No one needed him here, anyway. His father and mother were long dead and his sister was too much of a drunk to even care. All he was now was a waste of space. One more mouth to feed, one more person on the sidewalk to deal with, and no one wanted that. 

John turned around and began walking back toward his flat, his head held high for once. He was going to do this, there was nothing that could stop him.

“John!”

He had his gun tucked safely in his drawer, right under his laptop. He would leave a note in a document, in case for some reason anyone cared to know why he did what he did. The gun was loaded, one less thing for him to do. Perhaps he would go to the bathroom and do it. That way the landlord didn’t have to worry about a new carpet and whatnot. Just a new paint job and some bleach would do the trick. Wipe him off the walls and the floor and it would be like he wasn't there at all. It was simple, so simple.

“John Watson!”

John snapped himself from his thoughts and looked wryly over his shoulder. Of course someone would choose now to notice him. Who this person was, he had no idea. The confusion must have been clear on his face, for the man continued on. “Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” The man- Mike- offers him a smile. John returns the expression, only without enthusiasm. He just wants to get back and be done before he loses his courage to.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Next thing he knew, he was sitting on a bench with Stamford. The conversations were short and awkward. John wanted nothing more than to get up and leave, but something kept him there. It was irritating.

Mike cleared his throat and looked back over at John “I dunno – Get a flatshare or something?”

That made John snort, “Come on – Who’d want me for a flatmate?” He didn’t need one, anyway. Within the next few hours he would be in death’s embrace. How beautiful it sounded right now.

Only Mike simply chuckled. John rose an eyebrow at him “What?”

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

What? “Who was the first?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Why John was following Mike, he hadn’t the faintest idea. He’d just gotten up, and John decided to follow him to Bart’s. It would probably raise suspicion if he didn't. After all, the John Watson Mike knew would have gone back in a heartbeat. Plus, it wouldn't hurt if he took a few moments to say goodbye to the place that started it all. Sort of relive his life a bit before he ended it.

Only when they walked into a particular lab, there was a man in there, staring into some microscope and demanding a phone. John cast an odd glance at his companion, who apologized and looked toward John. With a small sigh, John pulled out his own phone and handed it to the stranger. He didn’t need it anymore, actually. He was about to tell him to just keep it for as long as he needed when he was given the once over. 

And then, with a quirk of pink lips, the man asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you guys enjoyed it! I got the idea from a submission to bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr.com. I couldn't resist just writing a little story on it. But hey, at least there was a happy ending. Most of my angst stories don't have that, so be happy (:
> 
> If you were the one to submit "John was on his way home to kill himself when he met Mike Stamford", please let me know so I can credit you for helping me come up with this!
> 
> This piece was written and edited by me. Any mistakes are my own.


End file.
